


Starry Night

by keepcalmsmile



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Not a death fic, Protective Bobby Singer, Protective Dean Winchester, Scared Dean Winchester, Self-Harm, Self-Harming Sam Winchester, Suicidal Sam Winchester, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 08:29:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21371179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keepcalmsmile/pseuds/keepcalmsmile
Summary: Sam attempts suicide-by-monster. Dean tries to help. It sort of works...until it doesn't.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 35
Kudos: 386





	Starry Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written years ago, posted for the November 2019 Hurt Sam Comment Meme
> 
> Prompt: "The first time Dean realizes Sam is self-harming and/or suicidal."
> 
> This work naturally includes extensive discussions of suicide. Take care of yourselves friends.

It starts when Sam’s fourteen. After three weeks of deafening, vicious, perpetual (heartbreaking) fights with Dad, Sam goes silent. Dad follows suit, and they quickly fall back into their old pattern of gruff orders, long drives, cheap diner food, and luke-warm beer.

Everything is the same, except Sam. Sam obeys without question, doesn’t bitch about missing school, or homework, or time with friends. Dad obviously approves, smiling as Sam researches their next hunt (probably a black dog), cleans the weapons, and skips out of school without a single protest. He even pats Sam on the back a couple of times.

Dean’s happy too—mostly. Happy for the silence at least, even if it also freaks him out just a little. 

Mostly, Dean doesn’t think about it—he’s got his own shit to do. This isn’t his first black dog, but a cocky hunter is a dead hunter. That’s Dad’s first rule.

He thinks about it a hell of a lot more the next morning when Sam ducks out from behind him and _charges_ the bastard.

Dean manages to kill the thing, but not before it takes a good swipe at Sam’s ribs.

If the black dog’s claws had dug just a little deeper, or if the run back to the car was a little longer, or if Dad had driven a little slower . . .

Dad gives Sam hell the moment the kid’s eyes open long enough for him to recognize them, loud enough to make the other patients stare. He rails about discipline, orders, plans, and other crap Dean doesn’t give a shit about, because underneath it all he can hear what Dad’s really saying.

_I love you. You scared me. Thank God you’re okay. I love you. I love you. I love you._

Dean watches Sam take all Dad’s shouting without a word and wonders if Sam knows what Dad’s really saying too.

He wonders if it even matters.

It’s not until Dad examines Sam’s stitches a couple days later, says he’s “good enough to finish healing away from all these God-damned civilians,” and wanders off in search of a bar (probably), that Dean finally has his say.

“What was that about?” he demands.

Sam, of course, looks at him like he’s speaking Russian, “What was what about?”

“This!” Dean gestures, indicating the bandages covering the stitches that are currently holding his brother together, “What the hell were you thinking!”

“I saw an opening . . .”

“There was no opening,” Dean grips the side of the hospital bed until his knuckles hurt from the strain, “That’s why Dad and I were staying back. It was suicide to . . .”

Then he sees it. The quick flicker as Sam’s eyes look down for half a second, an intake of breath so small even Sam probably doesn’t notice it.

Dean does though, and his insides suddenly feel like they’re made of cold, writhing snakes, all jumbled up and fighting to get out and he’s about to puke.

He can’t though, because Sammy’s staring at his hands, playing with a loose strand of his blanket, and carefully not looking at Dean because he knows . . .

He knows Dean knows he tried to kill himself.

The worst part is Dean can’t even pretend to be surprised.

“Sammy . . .” he says, but he seems to have forgotten how to say anything else because this kid, the _only thing he has_, outside of Dad--and even Dad’s not nearly the same--this _little boy_ who likes books and those stupid magic tricks and lucky charms and who always steals his socks and laughs at all Dean’s stupid jokes and calls him “Jerk” . . .

Sam—his little brother tried to kill himself. And it almost worked.

“I-I figured,” Sam says quietly, still keeping his eyes fixed on his hands, “I fi-figured we’d all go out that way eventually, and i-if I just went a little . . . sooner . . . that you guys would be able to . . .”

“To what?” Dean growls, “Deal? Forget you? Be _okay _with it?”

Sam doesn’t answer, just focuses more on his hands twisting in his blanket.

Dean leans down, rests his face on the cool, metal bar of the hospital bed, and closes his eyes. He spends several, long seconds forcing bile back down his throat.

“Sam . . .” he begins, then stops, because the words just don’t come, but they _have _to, because Dean's little brother tried to get himself torn apart, and if he tried again Dean might not get to him in time. It might work. 

“Sammy, you know I ain’t so good with words but I . . .” he feels the tears gathering in his eyes, can’t even make himself feel ashamed of them, if they get Sam to _see_, “I-I would rather watch Mom die a thousand times than see you dead. Both of us would.”

Sam makes a small noise of dissent, Dean loves Dad with everything he has, but at that moment, he could shoot him, “I mean it Sam. You’re first, and nothing, I mean _nothing_, is more important to me, you understand?”

Dean knows Sam doesn’t. Not really. Dean doesn’t know much about suicide (not as much as he’s going to, anyway, next time they pass by a library), but he isn’t naive enough to think a couple of sentences is going to fix this.

And yet, Sam’s chocking back sobs and a couple of tears are sliding down his face, and Dean pulls him into a gentle hug, fighting back the impulse to crush his little brother to his chest and never, ever let him go.

“We’re gonna fix this, Sammy,” he breathes into his brother’s ear, “No matter what it takes, we’re gonna fix this. I promise.”

* * *

It doesn’t take long for Dean to recognize the signs. If he’s really lucky, Sam tells him, not directly, of course, but sometimes Sam comes up to him and suggests they take a drive.

They go on drives a lot, anyways. Howling down empty roads from here to nowhere and back again. Pretending there is nothing but them, the wind, and the open road, especially on nights when Sam and Dad fight more than usual.

But every once in a while, Sam suggests a drive with eyes that are just a little too wide, shoulders that are a little too stiff, voice that is a little too tense.

It means things are bad. Bad enough Sam doesn’t trust himself.

So Dean makes an excuse, makes _any _excuse to get them out of the motel, or the library, or the diner, and they just _drive_. They tear down the highway, eating up asphalt and screaming old rock songs to the wind, pretending that if they drive fast enough, they’ll leave all that crap behind, whatever dark shit that clogs Sammy’s genius brain and tells him there is no point, that he should find the nearest knife, or gun, or monster and just _end it_.

Sometimes they find an overlook, or a park, or a lake, and without a word Dean pulls up and turns the engine off, dousing them in a silence that is all the louder after the cacophony of wind, hard rock, and engine that had just engulfed them.

They sit for a couple of minutes. Then, no matter what, one of them gets out to get a better look at whatever view they stopped for, and the other always follows. They stand and watch the sunset over lakes or trees or mountains or cities. 

When the shadows are long enough that they can no longer see each other's faces, Sam starts talking. If it’s a really bad day, Dean talks instead and doesn’t stop until Sam finally spills.

Most of what Sam says doesn’t make sense to Dean. He doesn’t understand how Sam can spend whole weeks feeling _nothing_, or sleep for twelve hours and wake up achy and weary, or how everything he’s feeling can build and build until it all hurts so much worse than any blade or gun or claw, and he’s ready to do _anything_ to make it stop.

Dean doesn’t understand any of it. Listening makes his heart pound and his throat close up in a way that’s different (and so much worse) than he feels facing any ghost or monster, because Sammy’s talking about all the reasons he thinks he should be dead, and how most of the time it’s hard to think of many reasons to be alive.

It’s hard to think of anything to say after Sam finishes. What can Dean promise? A real life? That Dad will drink less? College? That they’ll settle down? That there won’t always be another lead to chase, another bastard to kill?

Instead, Dean talks about stupid shit. He talks about pranks, and girls, or that crazy thing he remembered from a documentary on the Titanic Sam made him watch once, or that random-ass thirty-foot tall statue of the Jolly Green Giant they stumbled across in Minnesota, or those trees in California that were wide enough for the Impala to drive through, or the amazing barbecue they picked up from a shack on the side of a road in Kentucky.

He talks about anything he can think of, anything that might remotely tie Sam _here, _to _him,_ and usually it works, at least a little. Eventually they both run out of things to say, but neither of them finds it in them to get back in the Impala, so they just stay there for a few minutes, or a few hours. If the night is clear, they watch the stars, without saying a word at all.

Most of the time, though, Sam doesn’t tell him, so Dean watches. He watches to see if Sam suddenly stops obsessing over his homework, if he fights too much with Dad, or not enough, if he starts cleaning the weapons without being asked (and Dean’s never going to forget walking into the motel room one afternoon and finding Sam contemplating his ’45 like it was the most important thing in the world).

They handle it the same way. The drives, the music, the stars, but Dean drives a little faster these times, plays the music a little louder, focuses more on holding back tears than watching the sky, because what if he’d missed this? What if he misses the next time or the time after that, and Sam . . .

The books in the library all talk about therapists and psychiatrists and pills, and even if it all makes less sense than black magic, Dean would try it all, and more, to keep Sam with him.

But it would be easier to ask Dad for the fucking loch ness monster than happy pills.

Eventually, he learns to watch especially for the silence. The days when Sam goes quiet, agrees with everything he and Dad say, seems normal, better, even. He dreads the days when Dad remarks that Sam’s in a good mood for a change. Those are the days he knows he missed the other signs, or maybe they were never there (which scares him more). Those are the days when Sam’s stopped thinking if he should gank himself and starts planning how to do it.

Those days need more than a drive and a heart-to-heart. Those days Dean doesn’t let his brother out of his sight for a week, doesn’t bother with anything really, except shouting and pleading and (though neither of them will ever admit it) crying as he tries to convince his brother why he should stick around.

“Just one more day,” he says, gripping Sam’s shoulders so tight it must hurt (Sam never seems to mind), “Just stay with me one more day, alright?”

Sam nods without looking at him. Then Dean pulls his baby brother to his chest and hugs him, wishing he could fix Sam by just loving him enough, wondering if maybe he has to.

He does the same thing the next day. And the next. And the next. As many days as it takes for Sam to care enough to get pissed at his piss-poor excuse for a life again.

* * *

By some strange, unspoken agreement, neither of them tells Dad.

That doesn’t stop Bobby from finding out anyway.

To be fair, anyone would be suspicious if Dean called them a fucking moron for letting a seventeen-year-old go on a walk by himself.

“Kid needed some fresh air,” Bobby says, “Last I heard, that wasn’t a crime.”

No, it isn’t. Except Sam’s been needing more and more fresh air over the past couple weeks, and he hasn’t bitched once about missing a week of school while they camp at Bobby’s waiting for Dad to get back from a hunt with Caleb. The only reason Dean agreed to run a couple of errands was because he figured Sammy would be safe with Bobby for an hour or two before they took another drive.

“Did he take his gun with him?”

“Maybe. He was cleaning the thing an hour or so before he. . .”

“FUCK!” Dean runs out of the house, “SAM! SAMMY!”

“He headed out towards the yard,” Bobby says behind him, and Dean has never been so grateful for the man in his life, “And I would have heard if he wired a car. You head left. I’ll go right.”

Dean obeys without a word, screaming Sam’s name and running as fast as he can while still checking every nook of every hunk of metal he passes, praying to anything that might possibly give half a damn that he doesn’t find his brother with a bullet through his head.

The thought makes him run faster, scream louder.

When he finally spots Sam, Bobby’s already crouched in front of him. Sam’s sitting on the hood of some rust bucket, hands clasped firmly around the gun. He’s not pointing it at his head, but Dean knows the safety’s off.

“SAM!” he roars, hurtling towards the car and sliding to a stop beside Bobby when he sees Sam’s grip on the weapon tighten.

“Dean?” Sam says Dean’s name as if he’s a distant, almost forgotten acquaintance.

“Sammy what the _hell_ are you doing?”

Sam stares at the gun, “This is really the best plan, Dean.”

“Sammy . . .” And fuck Dean because he can’t think of anything to say. God knows he’s played out this scenario a million different ways, trying to think of the exact words he’ll need to get his brother to back down, and yet, now that it’s really, _truly _happening, he’s forgotten all of them.

“I think you’re scaring your brother, Sam,” Bobby says, and fuck, how can he be so calm?

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, still keeping his eyes fixed on the gun, “I didn’t want it to happen this way.”

“It doesn’t have to _happen_, Sam. Please, give me the gun.”

“No.”

“Sammy, we can fix this. Just _please_, let us help.”

“No you can’t,” Sam says, “We been trying to fix this for _years_, and it never works. Not for long. And I can’t . . . I can’t anymore. I’m just so _tired_.” And fuck, there are tears in his eyes now, “I’m so, _so tired._”

“I know you are, kid,” Bobby says before Dean can say anything, which is a damn good thing because he can’t think of anything to say. “Dammit, I know this life ain’t been easy for you, and we haven’t done much to make it any better.”

Sam just grips the gun tighter.

“And I know Dean has been doing his best to . . . save you, Sam,” and Dean doesn’t miss the slight warble in Bobby’s voice, like he can’t imagine the alternative either, “But maybe what you need is another pair of eyes to look at this.”

Sam’s face darkens, “There’s nothing left to see.”

“You’re smart enough to know that ain’t true. So how about it, son? I think we both know you don’t want to blow your brains out in front of your hyperventilating brother here, so how about you and me put our heads together and see if we can’t find a way out of this that won’t break your brother’s heart.”

For a long moment, Sam’s eyes shift from Bobby, to Dean, then back to Bobby, before finally resting on Dean again, but Dean knows who Sam’s talking to when he says, “You really promise to help?”

“I swear on my wife’s grave. Now why don’t you give your brother that gun?”

Like a robot, Dean shuffles forward and extends his hand. Sam obediently places the weapon in Dean’s outstretched palm while keeping his gaze firmly on Dean’s shoes.

Dean switches the safety back on, removes the clip, and barely refrains from hurling the gun and its offending bullets across the scrapyard.

“Dean,” Bobby says gently, “How ‘bout you head back to the house, finish cleaning those guns like your Daddy asked you to. Sam and I are gonna talk.”

Dean opens his mouth to say _hell no_ in as many colorful iterations he can think of, but then he catches Sam’s eyes, just for a second.

_Please go_, they said, before returning to their careful inspection of the ground.

Swallowing his objections (and definitely _not_ his tears) Dean nods, turns, and slowly stumbles away.

He makes sure he’s far out of ear shot before he actually _does_ throw the weapon and its clip in opposite directions. He hurls a few curses at the sky that quickly descend into unintelligible screaming. He slams his foot into the side of some old rust bucket, not caring about the pain it sends shivering up his leg. He kicks it a couple more times for good measure, before noticing a rusted crowbar a few feet away that does the job much better.

By the time he’s done, every scrap of glass within a ten-foot radius of him is shattered. Every heap of rust near him sports a handful of new dents or are missing a hubcap, fender, or, in one case, a door.

Every inch of Dean aches. His throat his raw from screaming. He’s covered in dirt, rust, and sweat, and none of it did a fucking thing.

Because he might be able to protect his brother from demons, ghosts, monsters, and bullies, but he can’t protect Sam from his own fucking mind.

This time, even Sam doesn’t think Dean can help him anymore.

It’s approaching dusk by the time Dean finally trudges back to the house. Bobby meets him just outside the door.

“Where’s Sam?”

“Right there boy, I ain’t an idiot you know,” Bobby nods at the house and, sure enough, Dean catches a glimpse of Sam typing furiously on Bobby’s computer.

“What happened? What’d you say to him?” Dean’s sure he must look like an idiot, trying to focus on Sam and Bobby simultaneously. Doesn’t stop him from trying.

“We talked for a while,” Bobby says vaguely, and it’s all Dean can do not to throttle the man, “He told me what he was feelin’, why he was thinkin’ of pullin’ such a goddamned stupid stunt. Pretty sure it’s stuff you’ve heard before.”

Dean nods, “And then?”

“He talked a lot about bein’ stuck. Stuck in huntin’, stuck between you and your Dad,” and the look Bobby gives him forces Dean to swallow his protests, “He told me he felt so stuck, he just couldn’t see a way out, so I helped him consider some options.”

“Like what?” Because hell if Dean knew.

Bobby tilts his head a little and surveys Dean carefully before saying, “Mostly, we talked about finding ways to send him to college.”

For a second, Dean swears the entire earth’s gone silent, that all the bugs, birds, people, are just gone, because Bobby really couldn’t be saying . . .

“College?”

“You’ve heard of it, I assume.” There’s precious little sarcasm in Bobby’s words.

“There’s no way Dad would ever . . .”

“It’s time you boys stop thinking about what your Daddy allows, and start thinking about what you _need_. And Sam needs to get out. Maybe for good. He needs to do what he likes, make his own choices for a change. The life’s killing him, son, and I don’t say that lightly.”

Dean brushes a hand down his face, sneaking another glance at Sam, “So that’s what he’s . . .”

“He’s compiling a list of schools right now, checking out application deadlines and all. I’ve got a couple buddies to help fill in some of the holes he’s missing . . . teacher recommendations, extracurriculars and the like, since he hasn’t been anywhere long enough to do any of those things, but most of it . . . that boys damn smart, and he’s gonna get into a damn good school and do damn well . . .”

“But . . .” That the thing, isn’t it, because Dean _knows_ all of this. He knows, better than anyone, how smart Sam is, how he salivates over college fairs the way most guys do over girls. He knows Sam could get into any school he wants, do whatever he wants . . . and leave Dean behind.

“I know this is hard for you, Dean,” Bobby says in the same, too-gentle voice, “And I hate to say it, but the fact is, we’re losing him, _you’re_ losing him. It’s a goddamned miracle you’ve kept him with us as long as you have, and Sam’s the first to say that he wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you, but that’s not going to be enough forever. So the choice you have to make is . . . which way of losing him can you deal with?”

Dean looks away from both Bobby and Sam for a moment, running his hands through his hair and brushing wet patches from his eyes. Everything in him wants to fight Bobby, to curse him out, take Sam, and drive forever.

Except he tried that, he’s been trying that for years now, and he’s going to have the image of Sam crouched on the hood of some dilapidated truck with a gun in his hand seared into his brain until the end of time.

If the choice is between Sam being gone, and Sam being _gone_ . . . then there’s really no choice at all.

“Okay,” he chokes, clears his throat, and repeats, “Okay, goddammit. Then what do I do?”

Bobby points at the house, “You go in there. You tell him you’re okay with this, and when you’re done, you go on another drive and you thank your fucking stars that Sam’s sitting in the passenger seat.”

Dean doesn’t bother replying to that, just trots up to the house, suddenly itching with the need to talk to his brother. Even if he doesn’t have a clue what he’s going to say.

“Hey,” Sam says as he approaches. It’s supposed to sound casual, but comes out sounding like a strangled fish.

“Hey yourself,” Dean says, also trying (and probably failing) to respond with ease. He goes to the fridge and grabs a couple of beers, bravely resisting the urge to find something stronger. He can save that for a time when no one will give him shit about how shit-faced drunk he needs to get after today.

He pops open both beers and sets one next to Sam, ignoring his murmured thanks. He glances at the monitor, takes a breath, and says, “Stanford, eh? That’s supposed to be a good school, right?”

“One of . . .” Sam clears his throat, “One of the best.”

Dean glances at the cheesy photos of kids clutching notebooks in front of fancy red-roofed buildings. “Looks geeky enough for you. You’ll fit right in.”

Sam leans back, chewing his lip and staring at the screen as if he doesn’t quite know how it got there. Dean half hopes he’ll jump up, shout “April Fools! Sorry for scaring the shit out of you today! Let’s go find a ghost!”

Instead, he murmurs, “Bobby says he’s going to get a couple of guys to help forge the stuff I need. I told them I didn’t want it to be too fake, that I wanted to get in on my own merit.”

“I’m sure you will.” Dean takes a swig of beer and tries not to choke on it, but his mouth doesn’t seem very interested on working the way it’s supposed to, “Hey, write an essay about the time you put down a ghost on a school night, bandaged up my clumsy ass, and still managed to turn in your English paper on time. Anyone’ll let you in.”

Sam smiles, even if it’s a little half-hearted. The smile is gone in a flash, though, “You don’t have to pretend, Dean.”

“I don’t . . .”

“I know you hate this. I know Bobby bullied you into saying you’re okay with me . . . I just . . . I just don’t want you to pretend.”

Dean sighs and sinks into the chair across from Sam, trying to rub the exhaustion from his eyes. It doesn’t help. “Sam . . .” He can’t think of anything to say, so he tries again, “Sam . . . you’re right. I don’t get this college thing. I don’t get why you hate hunting as much as you do. I don’t get why you and Dad fight every ten seconds. And I don’t get why you want to . . .” He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence, so he takes a deep breath and continues, “But I do know what _I _need, and I _need_ you to be okay. I _need_ you to be in one piece, healthy, and happy. And I wish to hell you could find it here. I wish you, me, hunting, and open road was enough for you, but I get now that it isn’t. So if this is what you need,” he gestures vaguely at the monitor, “Then I am sure as hell on board, you understand?”

“What if it’s not enough,” Sam’s voice is less than a whisper now, “What if I go and . . . it’s not enough.”

Dean hears the unspoken _What if nothing is ever enough? _

“Then you call me,” he says, “Sam _look at me_.” He waits until Sam’s eyes finally meet his, “_You call me_ and we’ll _figure it out_. We’ll find you a new school, or a job, or a girlfriend, or we’ll sneak back down to Mexico and chill in Cancun, or we’ll find a doctor because they’ve found a way to make fucking happy pills, or we’ll go on another fucking drive. Promise me,” Dean can’t bring himself to hide the panic in his voice if it gets Sam to fucking _see_, “_Promise me_ before you think of doing anything stupid, _you call me_.”

“I . . .” Sam looks dazed, as if he can't comprehend what's happening. 

“Promise me! _Please.”_

“I promise,” Sam breathes. His eyes are wide with a thousand emotions Dean can’t begin to understand. “I promise,” he repeats, and there’s tears welling in his eyes, so before the waterworks start, Dean stands and pulls Sam into a hug, tucking his head into his shoulder. Sam resists for a moment, but then sags into the embrace, and to his dying day Dean will never mention the wetness leaking onto his shoulder or the tears traveling down his cheeks.

That night, they take a drive, the longest one of their lives until the only light in sight is the stars. Then they climb on the roof with a mini cooler of beer and a bag of M&Ms and watch the sky move slowly from night to dawn.

“It’s beautiful,” Sam says as the first rays of yellow burst through the soft pinks and purples, rippling across the sea of wheat that stretches from the Impala to the horizon.

Dean steals a glance at his brother, sees something subtler and sweeter than just happiness or hope, something elemental, something he hasn’t seen in Sam’s eyes in _years_.

“You’re right,” he says, “It is.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know this Dean's reaction to Stanford is very different from what happens in canon. Hopefully this still feels plausible, given the dire alternative Bobby presents to him.


End file.
